ustily for his boat, subsequent evidence indicated that he was in the
other. The two cheering sections woke to frenzy, and the notables' car
was swept with confusion. Lily was beside herself and kept jumping to
her feet with an appealing cry of "Oh Platt!" Tom looked over at the
Hartley car at one point and saw that his friend had apparently had
fresh access to his source of refreshment, for he was now blissfully
asleep, cheek on the railing.

At the two-mile stake--with a final mile to go--the boats were even,
but both sides were jubilant, for from each section it clearly showed
that the home crew was ahead. Then the train shot behind a heavily
timbered point, and when the view of the river was again free, the
Woodbridge shell was half a length behind and obviously beaten. A pang
of disappointment shot through Tom. Oh, well, it was a fitting climax to
the day. There they were, slipping back and back. They were splashing
badly, and one of the Woodbridge men was obviously not pulling his
weight. Then the Hartley boat flashed over the finish amid the tooting
of countless automobiles along the banks, a winner by a length and a
quarter.

The Hartley people had given way to a transport of joy, while their
coxswain crawled along his shell throwing water over the chests and
faces of his men. The two boats floated idly about, their crews bowed
forward, gasping in agony for strength. To the men in the Hartley boat
came the faint sound of their grateful supporters. They had won--and
what was an enlarged heart or, possibly, a damaged kidney, to such
glory? The half hysterical screams of their Lilies were sweet
compensation. As for the Woodbridge crew, well, they would have to
swallow their dose as best they could--and wait for next year.

The young Hartley man next to Tom woke up. "'S the race over?" he asked.

"Yes, it's over," shouted Tom, for no one else heard him.

"Thank God," he shouted hoarsely, and went back to sleep--a sentiment
which cheered Tom so much that Lily, on the homeward trip, decided he
wasn't quite such a dumb-bunny, after all.

XV

Scarcely a day went by now without Tom's tracing his steps to the Norris
house. He seldom bothered any more with the formality of the door: going
around to the terrace side, he walked into the drawing-room unannounced.
If no one was at home, he sat down with a magazine or book in the
library or drummed at the piano. Then, possibly, he would go before
anyone arrived;